Love Me
by ink and ashes
Summary: Abandoned by those they loved most, two lost souls turn towards each other blindly--hungrily; uncaring of anything except the promise of escape from the harsh reality of the world--of truth. One-Shot WARNING: For Mature Audiences Only.


**Love Me**

**An X-Men**** One-Shot**

By Loki

_"But . . . why?"_

_"I . . . I can't stay here, darlin'. 'Specially not now."_

_"So you're just gonna leave—just up an' go . . . like nothin'?"_

_He turned away from those large, watery eyes of hers, unable to stand the sight of her tears. "I can't stay—I thought you'd understand that. I can't handle bein' here . . . when . . ."_

_"She may be gone, but there're others here that still need you—still care for you. What's so hard about stayin'—if only for a lil' while? You promised you'd be there for me; I'm askin'—beggin'—you t' live up t' that promise . . . please." Her voice broke horribly, her southern drawl deep and choked with the salty droplets that rained from her doe-eyes and joined those from the weeping Heavens above them. She was shivering and cold, her lush lips a pale blue as she stood in only in her ebony sleeping robe and matching slippers, her body-stocking visibly drenched from the storm. Long white-streaked chestnut hair hung in loose tendrils around her painfully young face._

_He couldn't bear to look at her. "I can't stay, darlin'. You know I can't."_

_Pearly-white teeth glistened. "Because your lady-love died? Because Jean's dead? Because she chose Scott and not you?!" Her anger stabbed through the thick veil of sadness. The redheaded beauty had been gone for many months now . . . but to the most important man in her life, it felt like only yesterday. "Pick one Logan." Her voice was harsh and unforgiving, years of pain hardening into a tight ball of fury her beloved guardian had unknowingly released. "Pick one—because there is no other reason, is there? Times get hard and you run; like a coward with your tail tucked tight between your legs. You don't think about the people here that'll miss you when you're gone—that'll cry every night because the one that was supposed t' be there isn't." _

_"Marie. . ."_

_She ignored him—his sad eyes, his gloved hand reaching out to her. "You never . . . you'll never think about the person that loves you the most. . ." She blocked out her name; the name only he called her. She flinched away from his touch, not wanting him to feel pity or sympathy—she wanted love, not guilt. But she'd never get it, because he'd always be too busy coveting another man's wife, and she would never be good enough—old enough—for him. She was passably pretty with knowledge far beyond her years and a mature calmness about her; but his beloved Jean was an exotic beauty with an ethereal grace and an allure than no woman could compete with. Two years, it had taken for young Rogue to control her powers, and even then, any emotional outbursts and they'd go haywire . . . Jean's lapse of control didn't drain people of their life._

_In his eyes, she'd always just be the kid—the little runaway he'd had to save._

_Tears stung her eyes harder this time. When he spoke next, she felt daggers pierce the heart she'd taken so long to piece back together. "Marie . . . you can't love me—darlin' you're only eighteen . . . you have your whole life ahead of you. You have that ice kid, you've got this school—"_

_"And all of it means nothin', doesn't it? I can't ever have a normal life—I can't ever be happy. You may have accepted me, Logan, but you'll never see me as anythin' but a kid; a lowly runaway . . . maybe it's best you leave—at least then I won't long for what I can never have." She turned away, walking back into the still-slumbering mansion. __Logan__ called after her, but she closed and locked the door before he could catch her; she was freeing him. If he wanted to go, she'd let him—after all, if you loved something, you'll let it go, and if it comes back, it was meant to be. If not. . ._

_She knew he'd never come back. It wasn't in him; he was animalistic—primal. Animals tended to stay away from what hurt them—even if it was the only place they'd be accepted. She knew he was hurting—bad—but leaving was not the answer. Scott hurt far more than any one of them could, and yet he stayed, teaching his classes, doing his duties. He lived on—why couldn't __Logan?_

_Why not? Because __Logan__ was a wounded animal.__ While she loved him dearly, she knew he would never love her in return, and that was a thought she couldn't bear. His absence and abandonment hurt—a lot . . . so much, she knew she would never have the power to love again—but it was for the best, it seemed. She wouldn't have to see him and know that he'd never be hers . . . she wouldn't have to yearn. . ._

That was what had triggered it all—his leaving. Like a row of lined-up dominoes, a string of events—inevitable—lead her to where she laid now, all because of a single night—a single person. Without meaning to, Logan had pushed her into the wrong direction—pushed her down a path she should have never taken—but she could not complain; indeed, she wouldn't, even if she could.

That night, after crying—dripping wet—in the empty Common Room loveseat, her grieving mentor had waltzed in the room, silent but sympathetic; he'd seen her outside in the rain, pleading with the Wolverine to stay—had seen her begging silently like a child for him to love her. He'd watched her walk away from the one she loved most, watched him ride away forever. It was no surprise; she'd been having a late-night cup of tea with her former Mathematics teacher when she'd spotted the departing Wolverine. Being the man that he was, of course she would expect him to follow, to make sure everything was okay and that no severe issues arose—which he couldn't have prevented, even if he'd tried.

Instead of embarrassment, she felt only a hollow sadness, which she confessed to the ruby-bespectacled man. He stayed with her on the couch, letting her cry into his sapphire nightrobe. It did not take long for him to join her, weeping silently into her soft waterfall of hair.

She enjoyed the feel of his tendony hands combing their way through her long, slowly-drying strands—she enjoyed the warmth his body radiated. The slow up-and-down motion of his breathing lulled her into a blissful state of ignorance. She did not know what she was thinking—in fact, she was not thinking at all. She simply reacted to the pain welling in her shattered heart—to the emptiness in her soul. Sightlessly, she reached for him, capturing his surprised lips with her own and licking at the moist, pinkened peals of flesh. She did not care if he rejected her—all the better, for she could firmly establish to herself that solitude from humanity was best—and was thoroughly surprised when instead of being pushed off of him, he tangled his hands into her damp mane, pulling her tightly against him.

She purred.

Their kiss was not a loving and gentle one, like that of a beloved wife or lover; it was crazed and hungry—two souls seeking comfort in a world where fate had decided it best to leave them alone and without love. She tasted coffee and ice cream with the bitter tinge of stale morning on his tongue—nothing like the tobacco and beer she imagined Logan's would; the taste she longed for but would never receive. She imagined her own would taste of tears and toothpaste residue but did not care—she inhaled his fresh, clean scent of soap and flesh, blocking out the part of her that wished she could bask in the aroma of leather and cigars; the snarling, whining in her head could only come from the essence she'd drained from the very man she coveted and for once, she pushed him away.

She would learn to want another—the blind lust already brought her to a source; she need only follow her more carnal urges.

Like a desolate kitten seeking attention, she rubbed against him, straddling his lap. His embrace was impossibly firm, revealing a desperation in his own actions; like her, he imagined himself with a different lover, in a different time where everything was perfect and everyone had a happy ending.

Like her, he did not want to believe that there were no happy endings—only in fairy tales.

Her fingers curled into claws, ripping at his barricading sleeping robe—he only mimicked her, tearing at the modest nightgown and then the body-stocking that kept her from touching anyone; a precaution in case she lost control. The stocking would not be needed—blind lust was not really an emotion, but an urge the body created to fulfill certain needs . . . needs she planned on fully satiating. She never once thought about the image they made; her, a naked eighteen year old girl, straddling a half-naked grown man—her former _teacher_, no less.

Said man clawed gently at her porcelain back, reveling in the softness of the perfect skin. She gasped into his mouth, never having felt the touch of another on her bare skin—it felt so good, so perfect. Those strong hands lowered to grip her round, firm rear, bringing her bare breasts and taut belly flush against his lean, muscular frame. She felt the evidence of his misguided desire against her groin, moaning involuntarily as a spark of electricity ran up and down her spine. She wanted more of it; she fumbled with the drawstrings of his sleeping boxers, tugging at the midnight-colored material.

How, in the dizzying cloud of hallucinated passion, he managed to gain an ounce of sanity was beyond her; with a guttural sound, he pulled away from their never-ending kiss, grabbing her dangerously wandering hands and panting, speaking to her. He had to repeat himself over and over in order for her to clear the fog. "What?" She mumbled, her tongue grown thick and tingly from his.

"This is wrong, Rogue—we're not in our right state of mind—I can't—"

"My name's Marie," she whispered huskily, her head already drooping to recapture his lips in another kiss. She didn't think how odd it was her own teacher didn't know her name—that, in fact, Logan was the only one who did. She wanted to forget the reality and its hellish truths, not fall back into it. Morals and age differences be damned!

Had he not been wearing those ruby-quartz lenses, she was sure he would have given her a stern glance. "No Rogue—we can't do this. You're eighteen—I'm twen—"

She struggled against his hold, trying to silence that logic-inducing mouth of his. "It's a fuckin' number, Scott—by midnight I'll be nineteen; if you want, we can pretend I'm thirty—God knows you're pretending I'm _her_."

"Ro—Marie—I can't—"

She wanted to silence him. The Wolverine had said those same exact words. _"I can't." _Words that denied her—words that rejected her. She'd be damned if those words took away this little peace of oblivion; she needed something—some_one—_and she refused to have it taken from her. "It's okay," she whispered against his soft cheek, her lips trailing a wet path from his ear to his mouth. "It's all an illusion—I'm not Marie . . . we're not _here_—so forget your morals."

With distorted logic like that, how could he resist? He couldn't, and that was fine by her—thinking only brought pain and doubt, and she didn't want that; she wanted only to feel the sweet oblivion his straining body promised and she wanted it now. She clung to him tightly when he flipped her onto her back, his weight pressed gently atop of her. Her eyes clenched shut when she felt his lips against hers, knowing his own eyes were closed behind those lenses; she'd said it was an illusion and she knew it was true—he didn't see the Rogue. Marie—the young woman who had matured much too early in life. The untouchable outcast with a childlike face. He saw flaming red hair and gleaming emerald eyes. Femininely angular features with that indescribable exotic slant to her eyes and cheekbones.

And it didn't matter to her.__

What she hadn't said was that she, too, was imagining someone else atop of her, causing her to writhe with forbidden passion. She imagined she gazed into handsome hazel eyes with a spiral of green that made them unique. Thick hair and calloused skin that sent tingles wherever he touched—skin that shone and darkened as if he'd swallowed the sun. Bulging muscles. That gruff, husky voice. While she hadn't told him, she knew he wasn't stupid—he must know she didn't see him as he freed himself of restraints, bringing her hips closer to his even as he continued to plunder her willing mouth. She didn't see him when she felt him slide past the thin barrier of virginity, filling a space within her no one ever had before.

The momentary pain was nothing—_meant_ nothing.

The name she gasped was not his and, likewise, the name he grunted would never belong to her. She clutched_ his_ shoulders and her knees clamped against _his_ hips, but his face was not the one she attached to the body; he moved within her hungrily, his forearms held him high above her, but she knew pleasure wasn't the only thing keeping his head ducked and his eyes shut. Her nails dug deeply into his straining biceps, letting go only to claw red welts onto the expanse of back she could reach. Her eyes glanced over his sweat-slicked body, feeling the firm, soft skin gently kissed by a lifetime's worth of blazing suns.

Her soft, whimpering mewls collided with his gutturals moans, creating a symphony of directionless lust and unleashed aggression. Her back arched sharply off of the cushions, this being the direct result of him pounding her harder and harder into the couch with each passing second, his desperation escalating. The tempo sky-rocketed. He leaned back on impulse and grabbed the back of her knees, spreading her thighs wider for him—she opened willingly, her nails digging into the couch pillows for some semblance of balance. Her stomach was in a billion knots, an unknown pressure building up inside her that was both gratifying and torturous—she felt as if she were freefalling, watching the ground rushing up to meet her but unable to meet it; it was just out of reach . . . so close . . . so very, _very_ close. . .

With a roar she wouldn't have expected from anyone other than the Wolverine—unless her imagination had suddenly become very, _very_ real—she felt the man above her come to a violent, shuddering release, collapsing on top of her as she shivered and jerked uncontrollably in the aftermath of her own—her very first, as a matter of fact, but she didn't dwell on it. They lay there, the sweat cooling off their drained and satiated bodies, their labored breaths slowly evening out.

Had they not remembered exactly _where_ they were, chances are that they would have fallen asleep right there in the Common Room couch. Scott, however—always the rational one, even though they had just proved that even _he _could lose it sometimes—hefted his weight off of her and hopped into his boxers hurriedly, avoiding her glassy eyes. He gathered the remains of his torn robe and shrugged it on anyway, quietly handing her the shredded body-socking he'd retrieved from beneath it. She grabbed it wordlessly, her limps rubbery and pleasantly sore. The collar and sleeve of her robe was ripped viciously at the seams—had Scott _really_ been so crazed?—but she put it on anyway, the material giving her a false sense of cover.

It was a silent agreement between them that they never speak of their little tryst. That night, they returned to their separate bedrooms, both too exhausted to mourn and grieve over their lost loves—or feel the guilt they were supposed to feel; he for taking her virginity on the eve of her birthday, and she for sleeping with a dead woman's husband . . . and for being unfaithful to dear Bobby. Their dreams were soft and hazy, strong enough to relax their weary souls yet always too fleeting to recall.

But while she had initiated the union, it was _he_ that continued their unspoken affair; it had been a few days later, after much avoiding and no communication whatsoever, that he knocked on her door after everyone in the mansion was in a deep, deep slumber. She hadn't expected him but, strangely, was not surprised—the oblivion they found in each other was too soothing, too tantalizing, to ignore. No words had been exchanged, not even a glance; his mouth attacked hers even before the door had fully opened, his foot closing it soundly behind him. She, switching from quiet and calm to passionately wild, reacted within the blink of an eye, returning his harsh, needy kisses and tearing at his handsome, casual clothes. Buttons flew, zippers broke, and fabric tore. At one point, she'd even threw off his glasses, but he did not protest—his eyes would have been closed either way . . . the absence of his lenses only gave him a reason.

And this would be only the beginning.

There were days when she would feel the weight of the world crashing down on her—when Bobby's insecurities would nag at her and she needed _some _way to cope with them without dying of aggravation. Other times, she would remember something of Logan's, and be unable to express her extreme sorrow because Bobby would know of her hollow love for him. Sometimes, she would simply be unable to sleep and her feet would walk down the well-known path to his room and the insomniac that would always greet her with open arms and a comfortable bed. For him, there would be days when he felt he couldn't even teach, or the memory of his redheaded goddess would turn him into an insecure little boy, his eyes spilling rivers of tears behind those lenses of his. Many time he came to her with tears in his eyes, ripping off the glasses that protected the world from his deadly eyes and pretending that, for only a little while, that his wife was alive and bucking with pleasure beneath him—that he only closed his eyes and took off the visor because the sensation was too much, and not because he would see the southern belle that really lay beneath him, her own eyes closed.

The world did not matter—all that mattered was coping. And this was their way.

Bobby eventually left her, finally realizing her heart would never be his. Unsurprisingly, she didn't shed a single tear—she didn't seem to really feel emotions anymore, and grief was something she suffered everyday of her life; a simple break-up with boy she stopped caring for long ago meant nothing.

_Nothing_ meant anything anymore—nothing but forgetting.

Instead of going to her now-distanced friends with the news of her bachelorette-hood—and possibly strengthen ties of friendship she'd unknowingly severed—she went to _him_; his classes had ended for the day, and he always kept the shades drawn afterwards to hide his daily tears from the world. Once the lock had slid into place, his silent cries had died a quick death and instead of his graded papers and books, it was her soft, curvy body that adorned his wooden desk, promising him an escape from the harsh light of reality.

But ironically, they were no longer friends. While their affair had grown to unimaginable heights, their friendship had withered and died. This was a "no-strings-attached" situation; any form of bond outside of their trysts would eventually lead to deeper emotions—attraction, affection, even love—and neither wanted love . . . not anymore. Their true loves had left them alone and broken—they did not want to experience that pain, or even to move on. They did not care that they found solace in each other's arms. While inside they screamed and begged for love again—for someone to love and hold and to call their own—they did not want to feel. They did not want emotion. They did not want truth.

They just wanted to forget.

She never worried about consequences or repercussions—her powers provided a sort of biological birth control—and neither did he. Neither felt any sort of attachment towards the other; were Logan to return one day, promising to pledge his entire life to making her happy and becoming her husband, she would never consider even _thinking_ about the man she'd let into her bed more times than she could ever count. Were Jean to arise from the dead, brand new and not a scratch on her, he would forget about the young woman he lost himself in every night—they used each other without shame or regret.

For a small portion of their day, happiness was theirs; sick, twisted, and undeniably false—but theirs all the same. It helped them survive the long, painful days and heart-wrenching memories that inevitably bombarded their troubled minds. It gave them a reason to wake up every morning. Their imagination kept them going—their ongoing lie kept them sane.

Because, for just a little while, they loved and were loved in return—and no amount of reason could tell them otherwise.

**[Fin]**


End file.
